


a grace too powerful to name

by herowndeliverance (atheilen)



Series: an aegis very essential [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Angst, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Nonnies Made Me Do It, apparently this is a series now, as before, blame them, so if you don't like that this is a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Alexander Hamilton is dead.</i> George tried to say it aloud, to make it real, but the name, <i>Hamilton,</i> caught in his throat. He’d said it a thousand times, irritated and proud and every emotion in between, and thought little of it until Lafayette brought him the papers that confirmed his suspicions, a scant few days ago. Now he couldn’t even think it: it was wrong, wrong, <i>wrong,</i> and it was too late for George to correct the mistake."</p><p>  In which George Washington finds his son, and loses him, and finds him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a grace too powerful to name

**Author's Note:**

> An anonymous commenter on my fic "you outshine the morning sun" (the Washington-is-Hamilton's-actual-father fic) asked me to fill this prompt at hamiltonprompts: History fact: Hamilton was falsely reported dead to Washington and the camp de aide after Schuylkill. Camp’s reaction to news and surprise when Hamilton shows up alive and well. Lams, Gay Trio, and/or relieved dad Washington please.
> 
> I wasn't sure how to incorporate this into the story, but when I looked up the battle, I realized it took place several weeks before my story, and as such, served as a great catalyst for the events therein. So Anon, I hope you enjoy this prequel!

“There are moments that the words don’t reach…there is suffering too terrible to name. You hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable.”

\-- _Hamilton,_ “It’s Quiet Uptown.”

*

Lafayette was the one who told him.

To the end of his life George would be grateful for that, that the boy, upon hearing his irritated bellow of “Hamilton!”, drew him aside and took his hand, speaking to him softly. _Sir, I am so very sorry._ Lafayette stayed with him for the few moments it took to compose his face into an expression appropriate to his office. Lafayette walked him to his tent, supporting him so he wouldn’t fall. Lafayette poured him a drink with shaking hands, and only left his side when George ordered it.

As if George had any right to special consideration. As if it wasn’t George’s failure that had led to this mess. Lafayette’s kindness was the worst sort of stinging rebuke, because George didn’t deserve it. George didn’t deserve to be treated as a grieving father. A father would have done more. A father would have _damn well known where his son was,_ instead of taking it for granted that he’d always come when called, that they would both make it through the war and George could...what? Make it up to him? Somehow erase the two decades of poverty and lack that had only come about through George’s careless negligence? 

_And what could you have done?_ asked the cold, calculating voice of the general, the voice he used to send his men to die. _Stayed on Nevis? Abandoned your post in the middle of a war? Even if you had known he existed, you couldn’t have taken him with you; Rachel would have relieved you of your manhood if you tried, and she’d never have left her other boy to be with you._ Their affair had been brief, but even then he’d known she was not the sort of woman you could hold. Loving her had been as sudden and devastating as a hurricane; passion coming on him all at once and leaving the landscape of his mind forever changed in its wake.

And even if she had ceded the boy, George knew keeping his byblow at his side would have ruined his own prospects. He would never have won the respect and status he so craved. People of their sort fathered bastards, yes, and they did the honorable thing and provided for them, but they did not give their bastards their names and their wealth, or call them _son_ for all the South to see. George could have acknowledged Alexander, but he couldn’t have been Alexander’s true father, not and keep his standing in society.

In that moment George had never cared less. He gladly would have given it up: the command, the status, even the estate he loved so much, the one he’d thought would be his life’s work, his legacy. None of it mattered, and he would pay the cost and count it paltry if it meant he didn’t have to face the truth.

 _Alexander Hamilton is dead._ George tried to say it aloud, to make it real, but the name, _Hamilton,_ caught in his throat. He’d said it a thousand times, irritated and proud and every emotion in between, and thought little of it until Lafayette brought him the papers that confirmed his suspicions, a scant few days ago. Now he couldn’t even think it: it was wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and it was too late for George to correct the mistake.

“My son is dead,” he said instead, admitting it for the first time. “My son is dead and I cannot even bury him yet, and his gravestone won’t even have the right name.” George wanted to weep, but he hadn’t earned the solace tears would give him. 

_He hated the rain,_ remembered George. _Hated being wet and could never get warm, and now he’s stuck in the river and he’ll never be warm again._

George allowed himself another finger’s worth of liquor-- _no more, Washington, you still have to run an army tomorrow, such as it is_ \--and brought out the folio of Lafayette’s papers. But he couldn’t make himself read them, not again. They had been horrifying enough the first time….Alexander alone in the world at twelve, working like a man just to see himself fed. Alexander’s inheritance taken from him by his half-brother, his books only restored to him by charity. Alexander’s cousin, dead by his own hand and God alone knew why. That brilliant essay, his deliverance from the island, which he’d read with such pride the first time, wondering if he’d been wrong after all…surely no child of his could be so gifted with the pen. Recalling Alexander’s words brought him no solace. 

_Where now, Oh! vile worm, is all thy boasted fortitude and resolution? what is become of thy arrogance and self-sufficiency?—why dost thou tremble and stand aghast? how humble—how helpless—how contemptible you now appear…._

_I’m sorry,_ he thought, pleading to he knew not what…Alexander couldn’t hear, and there was no reason God would look with favor on him. 

Thinking of the essay, though, reminded him of his last duty to Alexander. Whatever else he was, he was Alexander’s commanding officer, and Alexander would have wanted Hamilton the elder to know of his death. George wondered whether he would grieve when he read the letter, if it ever reached him. A vicious part of him hoped so, hoped Hamilton was filled with the same guilt and recrimination that was going to plague George for the rest of his life. Hoped he could find no peace, wondering how he could have spurned such a gift as Alexander. 

_Dear Sir,_ he began. His hand did not shake, much. That part was easy enough; he had done this before, after all. But he found he lacked the words to continue. Eloquence had never been his strength, not like Alexander. 

_I should have had him draft his own condolence letter,_ thought George wryly. _He would have done himself justice._ In this, as in so much else, George could not, not when he wanted nothing more than to call that reprobate Hamilton out for his selfish treatment of George’s son. 

He heard footsteps approaching the tent and wanted to shout, to beg. _Just one more moment to grieve my child in peace, please._ But he was not to be allowed even that, for whoever it was rushed past the sentry and bounded into the tent without so much as a by-your leave, ignoring all propriety. 

“Your Excellency, sir? I apologize—Lafayette said there’d been an erroneous report and everyone thought I had been killed, but I’m right here, I’m fine; really I don’t know what these scouts were thinking, are they completely blind or just supremely incompetent?” 

“ _Alex,_ ” he breathed, “is it…but they were certain…” 

_“They_ were talking out their asses, as usual,” grinned Alexander. “I am unharmed, sir, and I intend to remain so.” The last words were a little breathless, as George stood up, strode the few paces to where Alexander waited, and enfolded him in his arms. 

“Sir, this really isn’t necessary,” Alex protested. George begged to differ. It was perhaps the most necessary and right thing he had ever done in his life, and the weight of the boy against his chest felt like the benediction of God. 

“You’re sodden,” George said. “God, Alex, don’t you _ever—“_

“What?” asked the boy, indignant, squirming out of his grasp. It took all George’s strength not to pull him right back in. “Sir, I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened, I swear. I rode as hard as I could through the storm to get here and—" 

“Shhh,” said George. “I know.” 

“Sir,” Alexander frowned, “are you certain you’re all right? You seem unwell.” 

_I have not been all right since I asked you your mother’s name, foolish boy._ “I am quite well, and most relieved…I wouldn’t wish to lose you, son.” 

Alexander flinched. “Well, I’m here, so there’s really no need for such a production, Your Excellency. I’m ready to get back to work, if you need anything drafted.” Alexander picked up the aborted draft of his letter to Hamilton. “What’s this, then?” 

“Leave it,” George said. “It’s…” He almost told the boy everything then and there, but something about the stiff way Alexander held himself told him _not yet._ “I shall have to begin anew.” 

“Well, let us do so!” said Alexander. “We’ve been granted a reprieve with this battle, and we shouldn’t waste it.” 

“We will not,” decided George, and put his arm around Alexander’s shoulder again, the boy’s youthful pride be damned. “Come on, son. Let’s get you warm.” 

*

“But see, the Lord relents—he hears our prayers—the Lightning ceases—the winds are appeased—the warring elements are reconciled, and all things promise peace.—The darkness is dispelled—and drooping nature revives at the approaching dawn. Look back, Oh, my soul—look back and tremble.—Rejoice at thy deliverance, and humble thyself in the presence of thy deliverer.” 

\-- _Letter by Alexander Hamilton on the hurricane of August 1772_

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr now! Come talk to me at herowndeliverance. Also, looks like this is now a series, so follow the series page for updates. It's called 'an aegis very essential.'
> 
> Concrit, questions, prompts, and comments welcomed! I am blown away by the response to this verse so far, and hope you continue to like it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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  * [you knock me out, I fall apart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660701) by [Sanna_Black_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin)




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